The tenderness switched to lust once again, and I wanted to reach out, squeeze her neck, and kiss her fucking stupid. I was turned on by her meekness, but her temper turned me feral.
I needed to get away from her. We needed to leave.
"Fine." Stalking away, I called over my shoulder, "Bring the bags, Franco. I'll tell the pilot we're here."
The pier was the same as always. Tenerife was nectar to holiday-seeking newlyweds and families. The port acted as the gateway for island hopping, sightseeing, and was always manically busy. However, I had a long standing arrangement with the top seaplane pilot whenever I came. The gruff old ex-RAF commander knew when I visited not to accept any other jobs but remain on call for me. I paid him a shitload to be at my every whim.
So where the fuck was the plane?
I stomped down the pier, looking in the distance to moored vessels, trying to glimpse the white and black twin prop Otter somewhere on the turquoise water.
Nothing.
"Are you Mr. Mercer?" a youngish man asked. He had short black hair and a face that'd been tanned and weathered by the sun. My fingers twitched in preparation. I no longer trusted anyone-especially foreign strangers.
Scowling, I nodded. "Yes. Captain Morrow was supposed to be here. He's on call."
The man shook his head. "I'm Bill Castro. I've been assigned instead." His white uniform, with gleaming black buttons and a crest of an embroidered wave on the pocket, marked him as one of the many yacht crew in the port. "I'm afraid the captain is currently in hospital, sir. Triple bypass, unfortunately. I've been asked to escort you to where you want to go on one of the newest speedboats in our fleet."
Twisting his torso, he pointed at a sleek white and silver vessel that looked like a bullet on the water. Mahogany and cherry wood decorated the interior panels gleaming richly in the sun.
A boat? No fucking chance.
"I'm not sailing. I always fly." Flying was my thing. Flying was my one passion-the air was meant to be explored with the help of thrusters and powerful turbines. The ocean-that was meant to be avoided at all costs. I hated the water. I hated how innocent it looked at first glance, but beneath the depths it hid monsters, while the surface was home to waves eager to drown unsuspecting victims.
"We wouldn't sail, sir. It has a top speed of fifty-eight knots. You'll be holding on for dear life while tears stream from your eyes." The captain grinned.
I wanted to punch him. What if he'd been hired to take us out to sea and dispatch us on behalf of Emerald Dragon and his concubine hoard, or the Rattlesnake assholes in Australia with their harem of drugged-up slaves?
"Surely there's another pilot who can fly the Otter?"
"Q?" Tess appeared by my shoulder, flanked by Franco. Her eyes landed on the man who I wanted to throw off the pier.
"Everything okay, boss?" Franco asked, eyeing up the speedboat captain with a glint best described as wolf-like. Franco had embraced what we'd done in Rio, and I had no doubt he'd like to have a reason to do it again.
"Apparently our pilot is on his death bed, and our transportation now includes a flimsy dingy."
"Not a dingy, sir. It's a top-of-the-line vessel. And unfortunately it's your only option as the Otter is in for its regular maintenance and the other seaplane operators are fully booked this week with a Japanese tour group." Bill raised an eyebrow. "If you want to travel, I'm your only option."
"A boat doesn't sound so bad," Tess said, smiling at Bill. She may look unafraid and cool but no one knew her like I did. The nuances of the way she held herself hinted she didn't like being around strangers.
I glanced at the line of boats all bobbing like fucking corks in the water. So unreliable. So rudimentary. "How long will it take?"
"Depends on where you're going. I've been sworn to secrecy and was told you'd provide coordinates."
Shit, yet another bribe-able human who would know about Volière. Was there another way?
Bill seemed to hear my thoughts. "I'm your only choice, unless you want to swim."
I glanced at Tess. She seemed fairly relaxed-not too tense. I trusted her instincts and she wasn't throwing off alarm signals.
"Fine. It's 29.0580 North and 16.8796 West. How long?"
Bill's forehead furrowed, doing some quick math. "About thirty to forty minutes. That's at thirty-five knots. Can't have you falling overboard at top speed."
I glowered.
"If it's the only option, it's the only option," Franco said, stating the fucking obvious.